Nearly an hour later, the grand vizier had to admit that Hari-ibn-Hari’s tale of the sailor Sinbad was not without merit.
“An interesting fable, storyteller. Have you any others?”
“Hundreds, oh protector of the poor!” exclaimed the storyteller. “Thousands!”
“Very well,” said the grand vizier. “Each day you will come to me and relate to me one of your tales.”
“Gladly,” said Hari-ibn-Hari. But then, his round eyes narrowing slightly, he dared to ask, “And what payment will I receive?”
“Payment?” thundered the grand vizier. “You keep your tongue! That is your reward!”
The storyteller hardly blinked at that. “Blessings upon you, most merciful one. But a storyteller must eat. A storyteller must drink, as well.”
The grand vizier thought that perhaps drink was more important than food to this miserable wretch.
“How can I continue to relate my tales to you, oh magnificent one, if I faint from hunger and thirst?”
“You expect payment for your tales?”
“It would seem just.”
After a moment’s consideration, the grand vizier said magnanimously, “Very well. You will be paid one copper for each story you relate.”
“One copper?” squeaked the storyteller, crestfallen. “Only one?”
“Do not presume upon my generosity,” the grand vizier warned. “You are not the only storyteller in Baghdad.”
Hari-ibn-Hari looked disappointed, but he meekly agreed, “One copper, oh guardian of the people.”
Six weeks later, Hari-ibn-Hari sat in his miserable little hovel on the Street of the Storytellers and spoke thusly to several other storytellers sitting around him on the packed-earth floor.
“The situation is this, my fellows: the sultan believes that all women are faithless and untrustworthy.”
“Many are,” muttered Fareed-al-Shaffa, glancing at the only female storyteller among the men, who sat next to him, her face boldly unveiled, her hawk’s eyes glittering with unyielding determination.
“Because of the sultan’s belief, he takes a new bride to his bed each night and has her beheaded the next morning.”
“We know all this,” cried the youngest among them, Haroun-el-Ahson, with obvious impatience.
Hari-ibn-Hari glared at the upstart, who was always seeking attention for himself, and continued, “But Scheherazade, daughter of the grand vizier, has survived more than two months now by telling the sultan a beguiling story each night.”
“A story stays the sultan’s bloody hand?” asked another storyteller, Jamil-abu-Blissa. Lean and learned, he was sharing a hookah with Fareed-al-Shaffa. Between them, they blew clouds of soft gray smoke that wafted through the crowded little room.
With a rasping cough, Hari-ibn-Hari explained, “Scheherazade does not finish her story by the time dawn arises. She leaves the sultan in such suspense that he allows her to live to the next night, so he can hear the conclusion of her story.”
“I see!” exclaimed the young Haroun-el-Ahson. “Cliffhangers! Very clever of her.”
Hari-ibn-Hari frowned at the upstart’s vulgar phrase, but went on to the heart of the problem.
“I have told the grand vizier every story I can think of,” he said, his voice sinking with woe, “and still he demands more.”
“Of course. He doesn’t want his daughter to be slaughtered.”
“Now I must turn to you, my friends and colleagues. Please tell me your stories, new stories, fresh stories. Otherwise the lady Scheherazade will perish.” Hari-ibn-Hari did not mention that the grand vizier would take the tongue from his head if his daughter was killed.
Fareed-al-Shaffa raised his hands to Allah and pronounced, “We will be honored to assist a fellow storyteller in such a noble pursuit.”
Before Hari-ibn-Hari could express his undying thanks, the bearded, gnomish storyteller who was known throughout the bazaar as the Daemon of the Night, asked coldly, “How much does the sultan pay you for these stories?”
Thus it came to pass that Hari-ibn-Hari, accompanied by Fareed-al-Shaffa and the gray-bearded Daemon of the Night, knelt before the grand vizier. The workmen refurbishing the golden ceiling of the grand vizier’s chamber were dismissed from their scaffolds before the grand vizier asked, from his chair of authority:
“Why have you asked to meet with me this day?”
The three storytellers, on their knees, glanced questioningly at one another. At length, Hari-ibn-Hari dared to speak.
“Oh, magnificent one, we have provided you with a myriad of stories so that your beautiful and virtuous daughter, on whom Allah has bestowed much grace and wisdom, may continue to delight the sultan.”
“May he live in glory,” exclaimed Fareed-al-Shaffa in his reedy voice.
The grand vizier eyed them impatiently, waiting for the next slipper to drop.
“We have spared no effort to provide you with new stories, father of all joys,” said Hari-ibn-Hari, his voice quaking only slightly. “Almost every storyteller in Baghdad has contributed to the effort.”
“What of it?” the grand vizier snapped. “You should be happy to be of such use to me—and my daughter.”
